


Our Doctor Friend

by orphan_account



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Remixed, F/M, I think this is fluff, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Macy seeks help from Dr. James Westwell for what she believes to be a serious neurological disorder. Too bad he turns out to be deranged.A reimagining of how Macy met Harry and found out about her powers. But more ridiculous.
Relationships: Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	Our Doctor Friend

Macy was not in the office of a reputable neurologist. That much was for sure. Having already visited five others, she knew the accoutrements of such establishments well. It was, for instance, a requirement of the American Neurological Association to have a tactile poster of the central nervous system up in the waiting room. A box of tissues and brochures on epilepsy were also never amiss. Neither was a receptionist.

Here the only reading material was a flyer for an International Women's Day symposium left haphazard on the coffee table. Furthermore, she suspected she was in someone's house and not a place of business. The 'We Are Open' sign on the front door of the two-story townhouse certainly looked unprofessional; it appeared much in the same vain of a ransom note from the Old West. The fat tabby lounging on the ottoman opposite her pretty much clinched her suspicions.

But Macy was desperate. She was willing to risk seeing a charlatan if it meant answers.

And a charlatan he was. Or rather a women’s studies professor.

He stepped into the waiting room, which was also his office, which was also his lounge, with childlike glee and excitement.

"Ms. Vaughn!" he said, "How do you do? You're my 3 o'clock?"

The man in front of her was no Dr. James Westwell, MD. She knew him to be Professor Harry Greenwood, who not long ago was plastered all over the University's social media announcing his tenure. In fact, she had attended his inaugural lecture titled 'Caliban and The Witch: Cartographies of Resistance'. At the time she found him adorable. He wore a three-piece tartan suit, was unable to work his PowerPoint and referred to himself as 'something of a luddite'. Curious that he should now be posing as a medical doctor.

The plastic stethoscope draped around his neck was a terrible attempt at authenticity. Neon green, it clashed with his tweed vest and cool complexion. If she thought the e-mail in-which he reached out to be peculiar and his "office" equally so, things were about to turn into a circus. She was going to hit this silly man so hard with a lawsuit, he would be transported back to the pages of the Jane Austen novel he stepped out of.

But Macy was inquisitive by nature. She formed a, very generous, working hypothesis that Prof. Greenwood was recruiting her for a study on modern day female hysteria. What was the term the last neurologist used? Factitious disorder. A polite way of saying she was full of horse shit. Better than the first doctor who all but accused her of undisclosed substance abuse. She only wished this was a bad high.

"Dr. Westwell," she said tersely, rising to shake his hand. His grip was firm but not violent. He had a kindly face; the type babies and small animals were given to favoring in crowds. She might be counted among one of these groups because, though much was awry, she was strangely calm.

"Would you like tea?" he asked, leaning into cultural stereotypes with enthusiasm. It was almost as if she were an old friend he ran into at the artisan market downtown and brought home for a chat, and not a patient.

"Is that usually the done thing Dr. Westwell?" she said, sitting down, "I'd prefer we got on with it."

"Of course," he cleared his throat, adjusted his stethoscope, and began.

"Now, what brings you here."

"To your licensed medical practice?" she replied cloyingly sweet. She wanted to hint she was on to him and his elaborate charade.

He looked flustered, turned to appeal to the tabby, before replying, "Ah! It is unconventional, I admit, the fusion of home and healing, but I assure you it's all the rage in Scandinavia."

Macy suppressed a laugh. _Was this man for real?_

This was her cue to take her leave, as she had already taken leave of her senses. But it was at that moment she noticed his tortoiseshell glasses had no lenses. He had put quite the effort in making a complete spectacle of himself. And to what end? She decided to commit to her role as the patient fully.

"Well, Doctor, if you must know, I have some kind of... kinetic disorder."

In layman's terms, she was hurling objects about with great and unprecedented force. She had destroyed most of her dishes, a microscope, a cantaloupe, and moved many rocks on her morning runs. It had to be neuromuscular in nature, an enzyme overproduction. Something rare.

"What exactly happens Ms. Vaughn?" he said leaning forward, a shadow of a smile on his face.

This is where she lost the others, but there was something endearing, if a bit out of place, in how expectant he looked.

"Well, I touch things and they fly. I mean, move? In unbelievable ways. I can't explain it," she collapsed into the couch and waited for the inevitable. Usually a widening of the eyes, followed by an ‘I see’, then a scribble in the notes, no doubt to the tune of ‘patient insane’.

But he surprised her. He acted as if such a revelation was not only ordinary but to be expected.

"Do you always touch the things that fly?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you move the objects with your mind?"

He was now openly smiling.

Macy was alarmed. Privately, she knew she never needed to touch the objects. She also knew saying so would result in her being institutionalized.

"Telekinesis. I couldn't put it more plainly Ms. Vaughn," he said as if she had confirmed his hunch and he was waiting for a round of applause.

Macy stood up so fast the tabby jumped off its perch and left the room. She had enough. The Professor stood too, that stupid smile still on his face.

"Dr. Westwell, or rather Professor Greenwood, you have a minute to explain what the hell is going on. Or I will call the appropriate authorities," Macy said, brandishing her phone like a can of pepper spray. What authorities she could call and for what crime was up in the air.

Before he replied, her phone went smashing into the grandfather clock in the alcove behind them. The room was filled with a tizzy of chimes. Then the antique globe sitting in the corner flew toward the Professor's head. She hadn't meant to do it, but when she became overwhelmed her instincts took over. A split second before impact, he raised his hand and stopped it. The globe hovered in midair and then lowered to the floor. Throughout all of this, he never took his eyes off her.

It was a grotesque violation of Newtonian Laws of motion. She was horrified and lightheaded.

"Brilliant show Macy, if I may, and you can call me Harry. What gave me away? Was it my bedside manner?”

"Oh my God! What's happening?" she said, doubling over.

Macy started to hyperventilate. She had lost her mind. None of this could be real. From a distance she heard instructions to breathe in and out. She ignored them. The doctors were right. She was suffering some kind of mental breakdown. It was all in her head.

She pulled herself together and looked back at Mr. 'Call me Harry' Greenwood, as if proper address were the order of the day.

"There is a scientific explanation for all of this," she said, looking about the room wildly.

"Factitious disorder", she began.

She then proceeded to lose the plot altogether, "Or psychosis. A neurotoxin. This is a simulation. The globe is not real. You're not real. I'm dead. Was there ever a cat?"

"Ozymandias," he offered clapping his hands, "he came with the house. I'm actually allergic."

She wanted to throw a cushion at him. No sooner than she thought it and the cushion leapt from the couch and made right for his face. This time she hit her mark. She suspected he let her, out of some misplaced sense of gallantry.

"Well done again," he replied adjusting his hair and taking off the faux glasses. The stethoscope followed.

"There is an explanation, though you should probably sit down."

Macy did no such thing. Nothing this man said could be relied upon. He had some kind of kinetic disorder too, a terminal version, and he was clearly unhinged.

"You're a witch," he said, looking at her with all of the earnestness of Hagrid in the Philosopher's Stone.

She heard the neighbourhood birds singing. It had been such a nice day. The sky was still wide and clear, while dark clouds descended over her. He was making a mockery of her distress and she was not fond of being laughed at.

"A witch?" she cackled, "Yes, and pigs fly!"

"That's the spirit! With proper training indeed they shall."

Macy did not dignify that comment with a response. She'd figure this out on her own. She'd repeat the muscle biopsy and functional MRI if she had to. She gave Harry one last look over as she put on her coat.

 _A witch._ The audacity was outstanding.

She made for the front door. What a day. She needed a bubble bath, a sheet mask, and Vivaldi.

"Macy, wait!" He hurried in front of her, "That family you've been stalking. They are your sisters. They are like you."

Her heart stopped.

_Sisters._

She had guessed as much. Why else did she have a baby picture of herself and their mother, in front of their house? And she wasn't stalking them per se; she was working up the nerve to talk to them. They were all she ever wanted. But their mother had just died and then Macy started making things move. Bad things always happened when she was near. So she stayed away.

"I don't believe you. About anything," she said, her voice shaking.

"You made the globe fly. All of it, that was you. Deep down inside you've always known you could."

Somewhere buried in her, she knew this was true. When her father read Matilda to her as a child, she told him, "Daddy, I'm like her". He kissed her and agreed she was kind and compassionate and smart. But little Macy meant she had Matilda's gift. When she concentrated she made crayons move and food dance on her plate. She always thought of this as nothing more than childish fancifulness, even if, at various points in her life, objects she wanted drew themselves to her like magnets.

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

"Doyle," she said instinctively, though she would've been better served pointing out it was a logical fallacy.

"Also Spock," she added rambling, "In Start Trek VI and 2009."

Harry's smile grew soft, "Macy, would you like to meet your sisters? They are waiting for you."

"Where?" she whispered.

"Home."

...

When she stepped into his arms, waiting for the 6th impossible thing to happen that day, she noticed he smelled fresh and earthy. Like cedar, a touch of bergamot. Warm and safe. Stupidly so. Maybe they _were_ old friends lost to one another and found again at market.

"Do you even have a doctorate in women's studies? Or was that also a fabrication?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Of course. I'll show you my thesis, if you show me yours'," he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Macy laughed.

"You better tele-orb us, or whatever, before I figure out how to decapitate you with my mind."

"Excellent," he replied, as if he'd very much like to see her try.

For a moment they were still. Ozymandias, the tabby, waltzed back into the lounge and lay down in a solid square of sunlight.

Then they were gone.

.

.

.

Later, much later, when they are in love and all the world can see it, people will ask how they met.

She will say, "Through our doctor friend James."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
